


Between Roaches

by RabidRabbit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Choosing a new friend, Geralt is a horseman, How many Roaches have there been?, Sad going to hopeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 17:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22347031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabidRabbit/pseuds/RabidRabbit
Summary: Witchers live far, far longer lives than their mounts. So how does one deal with having to find another Roach when the loss of the previous one left a great gaping hole in the heart many people didn't believe Geralt had?
Comments: 19
Kudos: 251





	Between Roaches

**Author's Note:**

> I love the relationship between Geralt and Roach. It calls to my equestrian heart in all the right ways.  
> But horses don't live nearly as long as witchers, even if they didn't regularly run headlong into danger, so how does Geralt deal with that?

Roach had died almost three moons ago. 

Most men wouldn’t have been counting the days, the loss of one horse quickly remedied by acquiring the next to take their place and carry them to their destination.  
But a witcher’s horse wasn’t just a mode of transportation.  
It was their main form of company on the Path, their stalwart companion through hunger and cold, danger and deprivation. Most witchers were bonded more strongly with their horses than many a human was with their spouse. 

Roach had carried him across the continent many times over in her fifteen years of service. She’d kept him safe on the road, her quick feet outrunning any danger she’d deemed beyond the witcher, but just a quick to run towards it if her master asked her to. 

Her death had been mercifully quick. Better than the ending many horses found.  
She’d bled out in mere moments, departing the world even before Geralt had dispatched the cockatrice that had ripped her apart. 

He’d sat beside her for a long while, stroking her face and scratching her neck much as he had a million times whilst she’d been alive, her coat still warm beneath his fingers.  
Then he’d relieved her of her tack, smoothing her mane as he laid her to rest.  
A twitch of his fingers had made flames spring up beneath the corpse, quickly engulfing his loyal friend ‘till nothing was left but ashes. 

That had been close to three moons ago. He’d paid a farmer a few coins to store the saddle in the man’s barn. The promise of far more coin than the gear was worth upon retrieving it would ensure it wouldn’t be sold by the time he came back. There was no way he could lug it around on his travels without a horse to carry it, and he needed contracts to afford a new horse. 

Work was harder without Roach. He couldn’t cover nearly as many miles on foot, nor could he drag trophies or parts to sell back into towns quite as easily. He’d had several close calls with monsters of the human kind, forcing him to kill or maim rather than ride away as he would have done if he’d been able to, and that was even worse.

So time passed.  
Geralt was used to losing things he loved.  
It was part of being a witcher, just about everything in the world but those of their own guild lived far shorter than they themselves, and every winter there were fewer of those coming back home.  
He went about his work as well as he could, saving up every coin he could spare, forgoing repairs and proper beds in order to spare the money.  
It didn’t stop him from dreaming horrible dreams though, nor did if stop the ache in his chest as he would open his mouth only to realize there were no large fluffy ears to hear his words.

It had been almost three moons and he stood on the market square of a large town, the stench of manure and human waste strong in his nose.  
Livestock markets were easily found in fall, but this would likely be one of the last before winter, certainly the last he’d be able to reach on foot. 

Geralt had been carrying his saddlebags over his own shoulders for so long that he didn’t understand at first why people pointed and joked.  
He’d drawn his hood over his hair, tugged the edge forward as far as it would go to hide his eyes, so he didn’t see why he would stand out until he heard people laugh as someone shouted out a bid for the two-legged horse. 

His day only got worse after that. 

Most of the truly good beasts were far out of his budget, no matter how sparingly he’d spend his coin for the last three months. 

He knew his horseflesh, he could shift the possibly good from the bad just by viewing their feet and build. Many were not his type, either too heavy in the legs or too narrow in body to carry a man of his weight over rough terrain for any length of time. 

If he refused to consider any of the ones that weren’t chestnuts, there wasn’t anyone to know but himself.

He’d found a good mare not too long after arriving.  
She’d shown a nice, smooth gait when a lad had taken her by the lead to run along the street, and she’d been old enough to be full-grown whilst still young enough to have many years left in her. 

She’d accepted his hands when he opened her mouth to take a look at her teeth, allowed him to pick up her feet without even twitching her ears.  
Docile, friendly, easy going. 

Geralt had left without asking her price. 

There were several more that showed promise. Red mares were almost as common as red geldings, it should have been easy to find one that suited him.  
But one was slightly lame, another with foal. A third seemed fine until he found her teeth a ruin, useless for a horse that would have to survive on whatever the roadside had to offer.

Several others were suddenly not for sale once their owners took a good look at his eyes, or their prices happened to be far beyond what the animals were worth. Axii might have made the traders more reasonable, but subterfuge was not the way he wanted to start this new partnership. 

In the end he’d seen all there was to see but the side of the market reserves for the wrecks. The horses that had served out their working lives, the lame, those too bad in conformation to ever be useful as anything other than stew or sausages. 

He looked into dull eyes and at duller coats, the animals accepting their fate without fight.  
All but one. 

A lanky chestnut struggled against the rope that held her when Geralt passed by, ears thrown back against her neck. The whites of her eyes matched the white of her blaze as she snorted and reared, kicking out at the seller as he slapped her behind with a walking cane to get her back in line. 

“That’s a feisty one, isn’t she?” the man said, neatly stepping out of the way of the flying hooves as he grinned at the witcher.  
“Not for the faint of heart. I’m sure old Torak the butcher with get her nice and quiet though.” 

“She? It’s a mare?” 

“Sure is. Only a woman can be this mean-spirited, even when it’s horses you’re talking about.”

“Show her.” 

“No thank you. You can see her just fine like this, if you want her walking, you can risk your own head.”

Geralt grunted at that, frowning at the man as he tried to understand what kind of seller wouldn’t just about anything to earn an income.  
He’d faced worse things than a horse though, and none of those had been wearing a halter to lead them on, so he stepped up to the rope to untie her. 

Teeth flashed as she bit at his fingers, only the reflexes born out of grueling training and great doses of mutagens saving his digits from a nasty fate.  
He grabbed her by the chin to keep her from biting, the soft skin warm in one hand as he untied the knots with the other. 

She was fidgety when Geralt did finally have her somewhere he could take a better look, snorting and twitching and refusing to stay still after finally being freed from the place she’d been tied to for hours.

She was lanky, and not quite as tall as Geralt would have like. She lacked both muscle and fat, the hollows at her croupe and thighs telling a tale of too little food for too long a time.  
Her feet were good though, pasterns neither too weak or too steep, with good, even hooves beneath them.  
She tried to kick him with every foot he lifted.

Some haggling followed, the vendor realizing that he could make far more for his wares as a riding horse than as walking meat. He wasn’t hard to cow though, far more intimidated by Geralt than by his horses once the witcher had taken off his hood and met his eyes. 

Coin changed hands and Geralt slung his bags over the mare’s withers. She’d need to build muscle before he’d be able to ride her, and he’d probably need to buy another blanket to tuck between her back and his saddle, but he was quite satisfied with his choice.  
He didn’t want sweet and gentle.  
A kind horse would follow any hand that held its reins, obey without thought. He preferred a bit of fire in his four-legged girls. 

“Her name’s Lady.” the vendor called after them as Geralt tugged at the rope. 

“No it isn’t.” 

He tugged again and the horse followed, the first steps of the long, long partnership between the white wolf and the little mare with the fiery eyes. 

Geralt and Roach, together as they should be.


End file.
